Sunday
by StillAliveDoingScience
Summary: Every Sunday evening, Chell and Wheatley bake together. / Light Chelley with core Wheatley.


Every Sunday evening, Chell would bring out the old, stained cookbook she'd once been lucky enough to come across while rummaging in the back of the bookstore across the street. The pages were gummy and some were stuck together, others missing entirely; here and there, words were blotted out, indecipherable even to her well-trained, clear eyes. The book was musty and its spine flimsy and delightfully well-used, a rare find these days, and was probably a great deal more valuable than the five dollars she paid for it; five dollars, but already she had used the book over a dozen times.

It was Wheatley's job to read this book. Chell would only help him if he became stuck—which happened often, she had to admit—and he would read out the chosen recipe for the evening to her, one ingredient and one step at a time. Sometimes letters confused him, he'd read 't' as 'l', mistake a 'd' for a 'b'. She knew that this was probably an unfixable impairment resulting from his cracked honeycomb optic.

Wheatley rested on the counter beside the stove, his faceplate twitching every so often in anxious excitement. He watched Chell move about the kitchen, silent for now, never taking his eye off of her movements; he was nearly transfixed. She tried to hide the hint of a smile spreading across her face as she slid open a drawer and pulled out a stained, off-white lump of cloth, and shook it out.

"Oh, yes. Good thinking," he said with a firm nod. "Definitely a good idea, that. Don't want to spoil your nice- nice ah, _clothes _underneath it, do you? No, absolutely not_. _Brand new, those are, by the look of them, not like that bit of cloth you're unwrapping—what do you call that thing, anyway? What is it? Does it have a name? Or is it just—"

"Apron." Chell's voice was quiet, laced with a barely traceable hint of amusement. "An apron." She threw the cloth over her head and pulled it down past her navel.

"An apron?" Wheatley repeated back to her, trying the word out, his shutters narrowing as he considered it. "Ah. Not really a very_ suitable_ name, if I'm honest. _Apron. _Not very- not very _illuminating, _is it, really could use a bit more clarification, perhaps something like- like 'clothes protector' would be better—well, I don't know. Just something a little more descriptive, yeah? Doesn't make much sense to call it an _apron. _Bit silly_._"

He blinked twice, _plink plink, _and watched as Chell tied the apron around her waist, put her hair up in a ponytail, and turn to rummage once more in the drawer.

"Humans have strange names for things." She was only half-listening to Wheatley's babble. "Like _books, _even. I mean it doesn't really tell you much about what they're _for, _now, does it? _Books._ 'Reading…thing' makes more sense to me, or- or a 'manual database', yes, that would be tremendous! Imagine. Simple! Even this one, over 'ere, a '_cook book'_," he looked down at the recipe book Chell had placed just in front of his lower handle, "_…_fair enough, it does have 'cook' in the title there, but really, that could mean something_ completely_ unrelated. Something like 'manual recipe database' would be much more efficient, don't you think? Clever."

She nodded absently before straightening with something smallish and white hidden in her hands. Then, she approached Wheatley, "Random?" she asked, pointing toward the recipe book with a smile.

His optic pulled up into a smile as well. "It's up to you, luv. You decide on whatever sort of nice dessert you would enjoy. I am, obviously, not capable of sampling any kind of the aforementioned dessert, so therefore, you are the one in charge of eating it once it is, er, _done_. So do… _do_ make sure you pick something that you enjoy. Something that tickles your fancy, you might say. You might say that."

She smiled again, and shook her head. "Random." Her voice was smooth, strong and steady, but it calmed Wheatley's excited agitation only the smallest amount. "Let's have some fun with it this time."

"All right, then," Wheatley agreed, his faceplate tilting as he wiggled importantly, eye flushing bright blue, "Let me just… take care of this. Yes. Just stand back, there, luv, and 'ave a little rest. Um… Although, er- although I am still missing my hat. Need my hat, before I can continue."

Chell brought out the small piece of crinkled fabric she'd retrieved from the drawer and smoothed it, pushing her fist into the material to pop out the center of the small white baker's cap. She placed it on top of his core at a slight angle and he blinked up at her happily from beneath it, simulating a throat-clearing sound.

"That's that. And now… let the games begin."

* * *

_Author's Note: _may continue this little drabble if I have time. We shall see...


End file.
